Warriors
by Aurora Ilvento
Summary: Riggs has to go undercover in an underground fight club to solve a series of brutal robberies. But what sounds like a pretty straightforward mission soon has unforeseen consequences when an old trauma refuses to stay buried.
1. Erosion

Riggs and Murtaugh have just arrived for their shift when they're summoned by their Captain. They saunter lazily in to his office, where Roger with a bit of a guilty conscience immediately starts defending them. "We didn't do anything this time."  
Avery raises his eyebrows. "I'm sure the Committee of Good Neighborhood whose meeting you crashed – and I mean literarily _crashed_ – into would disagree. But that's not what I called you in for. Actually I only wanted to talk to Riggs, but apparently you stick to him like flypaper."  
Riggs turns in his seat to look at his partner. "He's right, you're a little clingy lately. You lonely? Trish still on that business trip?"  
The other man nods pitiably. "And Riana has gone camping with her friends."  
"Ah, cheer up, buddy. We can grab a beer later." Riggs claps him encouragingly on the shoulder.  
Murtaugh seems happy at the prospect. "I'd like that. But I can't leave Harper alone, so we'll have to stay at my house. Hmm, I could cook something – maybe some steaks..."  
Avery clears his throat.  
Misinterpreting his superior's disapproving gaze, Riggs generously extends the invitation to him. "Don't worry, Cap. You can come, too."  
"That's nice of you, but may I please continue? I mean, we _are_ at work here." Having beer and steaks at Murtaugh's does sound nice, but he knows what Deputy Chief Santos would say to that. So he keeps a stern face and – it works: Though neither Riggs nor Murtaugh look contrite, they at least stop planning their man date. Once he's sure he has their undivided attention, Avery continues. "You probably heard about the string of robberies up in the Hills. Some very influential people –"  
"You mean rich pricks," Riggs interjects.  
"– put pressure on the Chief and he wants them stopped yesterday. But there aren't any real leads and zero evidence, so it's been decided to send someone in undercover. And that someone is going to be you, Riggs."  
Murtaugh lets out a derisive snort. "You really want _Riggs_ for undercover work? He's about as subtle as a brick."  
The other man takes offense at that. "Hey, I can be subtle ...I just don't want to."  
Before Murtaugh can respond and probably start a lengthy discussion, Avery steps in. "He doesn't need to be subtle, because he's perfect for this role." He turns to Riggs. "The security video we have showed four suspects, all masked. They were using military hand signals, so we think at least some of them are ex-military. And that's where you come in." Avery steeples his fingers together and points them at Riggs. "You're going in as a veteran who's down his luck and wants to blow off some steam."  
"You're right, that's a perfect fit." Murtaugh laughs.  
Riggs shoots him a dark look, but otherwise ignores his partner. "Going in where?"  
"Some sort of underground fight club called the Wolves' Den – we believe the robbers are based there. You go in, have a look around and see if you can find anything. Murtaugh will be your contact as long as you're undercover. There's also a Henrietta Lange you need to see to get the outfit you need for undercover work."  
Avery places his hands on the desk and leans forward to look them both in the eye. "This is serious, guys. If the owners were at home they were severely beaten. One victim fell into a coma, another one died of their injuries."  
Both detectives nod, for once all playfulness gone.  
Avery points at the door. "Go get them!"

As they stride out of the Captain's office, Murtaugh is mulling over something.  
"I still don't see why they picked you for this mission."  
"Face it, Rog. When it comes to fighting prowess or shooting skills, they'll always choose me over you. But if they need someone to play the bookkeeper or something, I'm sure you'll be the first they ask." Riggs nudges the older man playfully in the ribs.  
"I've got a better theory."  
"Is that so? Well, why don't you enlighten me."  
"It's because they wanted someone who could fit in with these outlaws and I – unlike you – am settled and civilized. I play basketball after all." Murtaugh adds the last bit in an haughty tone.  
"Since when is playing basketball the definition of being civilized?"  
"Of course you don't understand that. You can't, because you're living on the beach like a feral–"  
Riggs holds up a hand to interrupt his partner – he already knows that litany. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. I'm a sand hobo."  
"That's right."  
They keep walking in silence until Murtaugh suddenly stops and turns to Riggs.  
"About that beer... You bringing Palmer too? Is she still in town? I haven't seen her around lately."  
"Nah." At Roger's expectant look, he elaborates. "We, uh, broke up."  
"You what? When?"  
"A couple of days ago."  
"And you didn't tell me?"  
"No, because I didn't want to dump my shit on you."  
"See, that's our problem right there, you never tell me anything. When it gets personal, you always clam up."  
"I don't _clam up_." Riggs spreads his arms to show how open he is. "Okay, ask me anything."  
"Alright, what's up with your hands lately? Your knuckles are always skinned. And..." He has been keeping quiet on this issue for a while now, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. Apparently this is it. "Our last case, the one with the singer. You looked ready to murder that Phil guy, just because he hit her a couple of times."  
He says that last part purposely flippant, in hope of eliciting a reaction. He's definitely hit a nerve, because a muscle jumps in Riggs' cheek. Murtaugh holds his breath and waits for the inevitable explosion, but the younger man just plasters a forced smile, really more a grimace, on his face. "Ah, Rog, I'd love to talk to you about that, really go into detail, but I gotta go get changed."  
He hurries off, gait stiff and faster than normal, and leaves a frustrated Roger behind.

 _Damn Roger and his prying questions._ Riggs shakes his head. Murtaugh doesn't know what he's stirring up, things Riggs really doesn't want to think about. But he knows his partner, he's like a dog with a bone. Once he's sunk his teeth into an issue, he won't let go until he cracks it. It's what makes him a good cop. It also makes him a helluva pain in the ass sometimes, like right now. Maybe he should cancel their dinner plans, so as not to give Roger the opportunity to keep digging. But he doesn't like the thought of his partner rattling around in that big house all by himself when he's accustomed to pretty much constant company. Riggs is so distracted by these thoughts that he almost walks past his destination. He knocks on the door and enters, looking around. The room is full of clothes lying in stacks on various surfaces or hanging from clothes rails but there are no people, at least none he can see. So he calls out, "Hello? Anybody there?"  
He hears her first, the clicking of heels on the floor. Then a diminutive woman steps into view from behind one of the clothes rails. "I'm right here, Mr. Riggs. There's no need to holler," she admonishes him.  
He looks down at her. She looks a little like a librarian, all prim and proper and she is _tiny_. Even with heels she maybe comes up to his chest. "Mrs. Lange? I'm here for–"  
"I know. And it's _Miss_ Lange, but you can call me Hetty." She inspects his outfit with a critical eye. "I see you're already dressed for your mission."  
Riggs gazes down on himself. He's in his usual getup, consisting of his favorite and by now only jacket, grey shirt, light blue jeans and trademark cowboy boots. "Uh, sure."  
"The combat jacket with the bullet hole is a nice touch, but those boots..." She shakes her head in disapproval. "I believe I have a pair of army boots that are better suited." She bustles off and returns with the items in question, setting them down by his feet. "Here they are, nice and battered. And the trousers maybe a little darker." She wanders around behind him. Riggs jumps when her small hands tug at the back of his jeans. He quickly turns around to face her, taking a step back to put some distance between them. "Woah there, lady. We've just met."  
Unabashed, she looks up at him. "You can relax, Mr. Riggs. I was only trying to get in your pants."  
He stares at her, not sure he's heard right.  
She gazes back calmly and adds, "... to determine your size."  
Now he's sure he can see a playful light twinkling in her eyes.  
He laughs, relieved. "Nice one."  
"Thank you." She smiles slightly. "Now. I'll get you the jeans, you can try them on over there." She points to a curtained-off corner.

When Riggs emerges from Hetty's lair with his new-old attire it's still morning, so he's got time to kill until the club opens in the afternoon. He decides it's best to do paperwork, or rather pretend to do paperwork so he can ignore Roger. It's pretty uncomfortable – he can feel the other man staring at him over the desk, eyes boring into his skull. Finally it's time. He bids a hurried goodbye to Murtaugh and drives to the address Avery gave him.  
The fight club is located in the gym of an abandoned high school with an empty swimming pool serving as the arena. The place is packed when he arrives and he automatically scans his surroundings, looking for threats and possible exits. He's just wishing his role wouldn't require of him to leave his gun in the truck, because he feels rather naked without it, when a man with a clipboard walks up to him.  
"Hi, I'm Bob. New here?"  
"Yeah."  
"The fee is 20$ if you want to watch and 50$ if you want to fight."  
"I have to pay to fight?"  
"Yes, but if you win all fights, you get a percentage of this night's takings."  
"Sounds like a deal. Sign me up." He pulls a couple of crumpled dollar notes out of his pocket.  
Bob takes them and makes a sign on his clipboard. "Thanks. The rules are no shirt, no shoes, no weapons and only one climbs out of the pit."  
"Simple and to the point, I like it. Who'll I be up against? Maybe that guy?" Riggs points his chin at a tall and rather arrogant-looking man with a pronounced burn scar on his cheek. He's staring intently at the fighters.  
"No, not that one, he's a Warrior."  
"A what?"  
"A Warrior. Part of this group called the Blood'n'Guts Warriors. They run this place. They don't participate in the fights, but they watch and on occasion recruit the winners."  
 _Interesting_. That might just be what he's supposed to look for.  
"Recruit them for what?" He tries to get more information, but Bob just shrugs.  
"Don't know, I just manage the financial side." Both watch as one the fighters bounces the other off the pool wall where he lands in a heap on the floor. "That was quick. How disappointing. Well, you can have a go now, if you're ready."  
"I was born ready." Riggs takes off his shirt and shoes and climbs into the pit for his first fight.  
He wants to make an impression, but it's not easy since the first few men that come at him are almost ridiculously slow. In the beginning he goes with the basic five-second knockout – a flurry of blows, then the fight is over. But that's a bit boring. So he starts to draw the fights out, lets the other guy land a couple of hits to keep their spirit up and relishes the pain it brings. When his opponent is beginning to tire, he moves in for the finishing blow. Some guys are better and the fights more interesting, but in the end none of them are trained killers like he is, so the outcome is still the same. At the end of the night he goes to collect his take, smirking as he feels the Warrior's eyes on him. He's starting to like this mission.

This goes on for a couple of weeks. He'd show up at irregular intervals – not too often to avoid being suspicious –, win every fight, collect his money and leave. Being undercover, he isn't allowed to come to the office and it leaves him too much time to think. Which is exactly what he has been trying to avoid, first by working long hours, then by diving headfirst into the relationship with Palmer. Now those options have been taken from him, so he tries to occupy himself by exercising and practicing his shooting. He has this vague notion that as long as he keeps moving, he can maybe outrun the memories.  
 _'Running again, little rabbit? You always were a coward.'_  
Unbidden, the spiteful voice of his father echoes through his brain. He flinches, feeling the old emotions flooding him – a swirling black vortex of hate, fear, anger and guilt threatening to swallow him whole. _No._ He clenches his fists so tightly it hurts, detesting that after all these years the man still has such power over him. He holds on to the anger, as that's the emotion most easily dealt with and slams his fist against the wall, leaving his trailer with a nice new dent and once again ripping open the skin on his knuckles. But it's not enough. Panting, he decides to fuck inconspicuousness and go to the Wolves' Den right now. After all, there's nothing like a fight to release all that pent-up emotion. He grabs his car keys and is on the way out as his phone rings. It's Murtaugh. Riggs internally debates not picking up and just going straight to the Den, but he still has a job to do and he isn't one to shirk his duties. He accepts the call and listens to his partner informing him of the address of today's meeting location, as they vary places to, once again, avoid being conspicuous. This time it's a bar where they'll sit next to another at the counter and pretend not to know each other. Riggs wants to get this over quick and probably broke some speed records driving over, so Roger isn't there yet. Impatiently waiting for his partner to show up, he bounces his leg and drums his fingers on the counter. The bartender and other patrons give him a wide berth. He doesn't blame them, he knows he looks every bit the unstable vet he's supposed to portray. Still, it kind of stings. His mood isn't improved either when Roger finally slides onto the stool next to him, because the first thing he says is, "You've got blood on your hand." Then, noticing the waves of nervous energy radiating off Riggs, he adds. "And you're looking kind of antsy. You alright?"  
"I'm fine," Riggs snaps, feeling immediately guilty at his partner's hurt expression. After all, he knows Roger means well. But he's fed up with his constant questions, he wishes the man would just let him be. Abruptly, he hops down from the bar stool.  
"I gotta go."  
Murtaugh can only shake his head.

Later that night, after some much needed cathartic release, he feels better and his head is wonderfully empty. He once again walks into Bob's office to get his winnings, but instead of forking over the cash, he invites Riggs to sit down a minute.  
Bob consults his trusty clipboard, thoughtfully scratching his head. "I see you've won every night so far. While I admire your talent, it's bad for business –the outcome is just too predictable. There's one guy I'd like to pitch you against. Biker dude named Stark or something." Riggs has seen him around, dressed in black leather and all scarred up. Riggs himself has his fair share of scars, but this dude looks like someone put him headfirst into a wood chipper. And he holds himself like a born fighter, easily balanced on the balls of his feet. He wouldn't mind going against that guy, it might finally make an interesting fight.  
"Unfortunately he's not a regular, and I don't know when he'll next come in. But I've got a different proposal for you, if you'd like to hear it."  
"Sure."  
But instead of speaking, Bob motions to the door. It opens to admit four guys, who aggressively surround Riggs.  
"An orgy? That's very flattering, but I'm really not that kind of man." He turns to look back to Bob, but the man has vanished. _So that's how it is._ He rolls his shoulders and brings up his fists, going into combat stance. "Well, bring it on."  
And they do.


	2. Dissolution

[Thanks for the feedback, I really appreciate it! Also: Hello again, Dramamama5 :)  
Glad you like cliffhangers, Dlwells51, 'cause there's another one at the end of this chapter ;)  
And sure there is more to come: This chapter + another one to deal with the (literal and metaphorical) fallout.]

Riggs tries to keep as many attackers as possible in his field of vision – not an easy feat when there's four of them. He's just fending off a guy dressed like a rapper, sidestepping his flailing fists and finally dropping him with a well-aimed kidney blow, when a second fighter gets behind him and traps his arms in a bear hug. While that guy is still trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs, another makes the mistake of assuming their victim is now defenseless and decides to rush him. Riggs kicks out with his feet, getting effectively rid of both opponents as he manages to break one guy's jaw while the other is thrown off balance. Bear Hug falls on his back and reflexively loosens his hold. In one fluid movement, Riggs rolls back to his feet and deflects a punch aimed at his face before jumping forward and driving his knee into Rapper's solar plexus. The guy is surprisingly resilient – after the previous punch to the kidney, he should have been out longer. So Riggs makes sure he stays down this time by hitting him in the temple with an elbow while Rapper is still bent over gasping.  
With all his senses battle-heightened he feels rather than hears movement behind him: Bear Hug is back and charging. Riggs reacts on instinct and uses the guy's own momentum to throw him over his shoulder, then lashes out with a foot, caving in the man's cheekbone with a satisfying _crunch_.  
The fourth attacker has kept his distance till now, probably waiting for the others to wear him down. Since that hasn't happened, he tries for a surprise attack, grabbing Riggs' shoulders from behind with the intention of wrestling him to the ground. But he has underestimated his opponent's reflexes: Riggs instantly snaps around, trapping both his assailant's arms in one of his and uses his free arm to rain body blows on his unprotected side. The fight has heated his blood, so he keeps going until he can both hear and feel the guy's ribs break. Only as the man stops trying to free his arms and the fight drains out of him does he come to his senses. Riggs lets him slump to the ground and steps back, breathing hard. He surveys the room, tense and ready for anything. But all his attackers are lying on the floor, either completely motionless or moaning quietly.  
A clapping sound coming from the door has him whirling around. It's the scarred Warrior and he seems to be applauding him. "That was pretty impressive. We could definitely use someone like you."  
He lowers his fists and pushes back the hair that had fallen into his face. "The fuck are you talking about?"  
"That was your job interview. I mean, we can't just let _anyone_ join our team."  
Riggs hooks a thumb at the groaning bodies. "I hope that wasn't them."  
As none of the attackers had been armed, he had assumed – correctly, as it turns out – that they just meant to rough him up, not kill him. He has therefore tried to keep his responses appropriate, at least mostly so. Still, none of them will be getting up in the near future.  
The man laughs "No. You'll meet them soon." He claps Riggs on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Warriors."

The man introduces himself as "Thomas, but everyone calls me Sergeant" and takes him to meet the guys. Riggs hasn't kept track of the time, but apparently it's dinner time for the Warriors. Their lunchroom is located in another part of the high school, a former classroom from the looks of it. Apparently they're having a BBQ. It smells absolutely delicious and Riggs' stomach growls. He had been way to agitated to eat much except for a liquid breakfast. Riggs surveys the men gathered in the room. Avery's right, they have the military bearing of experienced soldiers. And most of them really are veterans, as Riggs learns.  
The Sergeant introduces them one by one both by name and former position in the forces. Manning the indoor grill is a former Marine called Sterling. He's big and black and bald, kind of like Murtaugh on steroids, but with a much meaner disposition. Then there's Vasquez who used to be an IED expert until a miscalculation cost him an arm. Sitting next to him is Murph, both the youngest and smallest member of the group. He's not old enough to be a vet and stands out like a terrier among wolves. Noticing Riggs' confusion, the Sergeant explains, "We kind of inherited him. His brother was KIA in Iraq and I promised to take care of his little brother if anything happened to him."  
Introductions complete, the Sarge leaves. Riggs has nodded to each of them and in turn gotten a wary nod combined with a suspicious look. Not exactly what you'd call welcoming, but he can deal with that. He takes a plate and sits down next to Vasquez, wryly thinking that he, the damaged Navy SEAL, really completes this little group of misfits.  
After dinner the Sergeant pops in again and offers Riggs a place to stay. He learns that they're not only eating in the abandoned school, but actually living there – either by their own free decision or because they don't have anywhere else to go. He accepts, figuring it would be the quickest way to win their trust and maybe sneak around a little.

Despite his best intentions to focus on the mission, because he wants to get this over quick, he's starting to like the guys. Vasquez is taciturn and withdrawn at first, but when he finds out that Riggs speaks a little Spanish he warms up to him. The one-armed man quickly takes up the habit to just switch languages whenever they're talking. The problem is, in his excitement he's talking so fast that Riggs only understands every second word or so and just smiles and nods to the rest. Vasquez doesn't seem to mind. Big guy Sterling, while looking like someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, actually has a fine sense of humor and likes to prepare meals for everyone. He's also deeply loyal to their leader. Riggs soon understands why: The Sergeant may be a little stand-offish and prone to giving speeches but he cares for his men. Riggs has come to believe, that, while misguided, he has really their best interests at heart. And Murph, it's hard not to like Murph – he's curious and eager and soon starts to follow Riggs around like a love-sick puppy, awed of the other man's thoughtless grace and natural aptitude for fighting. It's cute, in a way, but it makes it hard to get into contact with Roger or to search for evidence as planned.  
But that gets less and less important as the days pass by, anyway. Riggs finds himself thinking less and less about the mission and just enjoying the easy camaraderie the guys provide. Being among people who have their own issues makes him feel less different. The company of normal people, on the other hand, only serves to underline the fact that he's not one of them and never will be. And the Warriors have seen their share of troubled souls, so even when he's all edgy and wired they don't treat him like a time bomb about to go off.  
Speaking of bombs: It's also nice to be able to bond over war stories or to just causally drop a remark about dog corpses stuffed with explosives without the conversation stopping abruptly. Riggs knows they're most likely the robbers he's looking for, but he understands them: To come back from the great sandbox and learn that you no longer fit into the society you fought to protect, that your chances of getting a good job are practically nil, especially if you were maimed like Vasquez. Riggs himself has come out of the war without any lasting physical damage and it still hasn't been easy for him. So, he can see where they're coming from. It still doesn't make it right what they're – probably – doing, though.

The nights are the biggest obstacles, because once again sleeping in communal quarters takes some getting used to. Instead of the cries of seagulls and the crashing waves he now hears  
the other guys snore and snort in their sleep. Occasionally one of them wakes him up with their tossing and turning and occasional yelling in the throes of a nightmare, but he doesn't mind. He has them too, after all. Though maybe not about the same things. The war is always on his mind in some form or other – that's just the kind of thing that stays with you. But recently it has taken a backseat to an even older trauma. He doesn't know why he is remembering his shitty childhood now of all times, especially since he has done his damnedest to forget it. It's as if the universe is saying, 'Hey, you're pulling your shit together? Maybe even starting to get over your wife's murder? Feeling kinda good about yourself? Boy, do I have news for you!'  
It only confirms his belief that life has a cruel sense of humor.  
One good thing has come out of this whole mess, though: The cure for all that is now right around the corner. And it doesn't even involve a bottle. Riggs knows he's not supposed to join the fights, now that he's part of their little gang, but he has never played by the rules and has no intention of starting now.

After a couple of rounds in the pit he takes a quick, refreshing shower. Very refreshing in fact, because the primitive sanitary facilities they've set up provide only cold water. He puts on pants and sits down on his cot to pull on his heavy combat boots, still kind of miffed that he's not allowed to wear his own shoes. Murph, shadowing him as usual, plunks down on the opposite bunk bed and watches him change. Noticing the tattoos on the other man's chest, he asks curiously. "Who's Miranda?"  
Riggs winces. Though it doesn't hurt like it used to, it still stings when he unexpectedly hears her name – a needle instead of an ice pick through his heart. He continues pulling on his shirt and says reluctantly, "She was my wife." Before the kid can inquire about the past tense of his answer, he adds, "She was murdered. But I got the fucker who killed her." Unconsciously, he clenches his fists. He still wishes he had been the one to put a bullet in Tito Flores's brain.  
Murph's bright blue eyes are full of understanding. "I wanted to enlist so I could avenge my brother, but the Sarge didn't let me. He says he already killed the hajji fucks who shot him, but there's a war here to fight as well – against an enemy who takes what is rightfully that of our war heroes."  
The boy is probably quoting one of the Sarge's speeches word for word, blissfully unaware of his slip-up. Riggs both envies and pities the gullible little guy. Murph sees the world in black and white, just the way their charismatic leader paints it for him. He doesn't yet have the hard-earned experience to know there are no absolutes, but good and bad everywhere. And that the people closest to you are just as capable of fucking you up as gun-toting terrorists.

Murtaugh is twiddling his thumbs, waiting for his shift to end. Being support slash contact for his undercover partner has left him with a lot of time on his hands, especially since that partner hasn't even deigned to show up at their last meetings.  
His phone rings and he quickly snatches it, grateful for something to do. It's Trish, who just got back from her business trip yesterday. She laughs at his overenthusiastic greeting and apologetically tells him to cancel their dinner plans since she'll be working late. Murtaugh sighs as she hangs up and decides to reorganize his desk. Finally the clock shows 5 pm. He starts packing his stuff, preparing himself for another lonely, worry-filled evening. Well, not completely alone – at least one daughter is sure to be at home. But while he dearly loves his baby girl, Harper isn't a great conversationalist yet.  
On his way out he passes Bailey and Bowman who are sitting at their desk, busy with their phones and apparently completely unaware their shift has ended. Murtaugh shakes his head. _Kids these days..._ But an idea springs to mind and he asks, "Hey Bailey, wanna get dinner?"  
She looks up and shakes her head. "Sorry, I already got plans."  
Murtaugh gazes contemplatively at Bowman who's currently grinning like a fool at something on his phone. Nah, he's not _that_ desperate.  
Still, sometimes he envies Bailey her partner. Bowman is happy and likable, just like a Labrador retriever. Riggs on the other hand is more a Doberman – deadly and unapproachable. And increasingly volatile, too, so make that a Doberman with rabies.  
Lately he feels that whenever he spends time with his partner, either professionally or privately, it always comes to a rather abrupt, unpleasant end. Take their steak dinner, for example. He had been looking forward to that, despite Riggs' odd behavior – he was used to that after all. He shakes his head and smiles fondly despite his dark mood. If anyone had told him after their first day that this maniac would become as close as family, Roger would have laughed hysterically. Not only at the absurdity of that statement, but also because the adrenaline rush from his first taste of police work à la Riggs hadn't yet faded.  
But miraculously enough despite the age difference and their completely opposite personalities they have formed a strong bond, mostly because they share the same wacky humor no one else seems to appreciate. That evening though, their banter was rather one-sided, Riggs had been clearly preoccupied with something. Murtaugh had caught him several times just staring at nothing. When he had called his name to get his attention, there was such pain in his eyes that Murtaugh had felt compelled to bring up the subject again. It hadn't gone well, to say the least. Riggs had instantly tensed up and gone on the defensive. Roger hadn't even drawn breath to speak as Riggs half-begged, half-warned, "Just leave it. Okay?"  
It had irked Murtaugh that the younger man seemed unable to get that he only wants to help. So he had kept pushing, a bit more forcefully than was probably wise.  
"Come on, just help me understand what's wrong with you."  
"There's nothing wrong with me!" His partner almost yelled and slammed his fork on the table, scaring Harper and setting her to cry. Roger had picked her up and tried to soothe her, gently bouncing her on his arm and mumbling, "It's okay, baby. Daddy is here."  
Riggs had thrown them a haunted look. "I'm sorry. I should go." With that he had shoved away from the table and was gone.

Surprisingly enough, when Murtaugh gets home he sees his partner. He looks rather rough, half healed bruises are layered with fresh ones all over his upper body and face. It doesn't seem to bother him, though – his movements are just as fluent and powerful as ever as he stalks around, waiting for the chance to attack. The look on his face is all concentration. Or at least Murtaugh imagines it must be. He can't make it out exactly, because the footage is a bit grainy, the fight club clearly hasn't bothered to buy high quality filming equipment. Or maybe they meant their videos to look like snuff films – they're certainly brutal enough.  
The clicking of heels in the corridor announces the return of his wife.  
"Finally home, honey?" Roger calls out.  
Trish sits down next to him on the bed and sighs as she removes her shoes. "Yes, _finally_. It's been an exhausting week."  
She leans in close and peers over his shoulder. Seeing two shirtless men locked in an intense fight with fists, feet and blood flying, she grimaces in distaste. "Is that one of those MMA fights? That's barbaric." She wants to turn away, but one of the fighters looks awfully familiar. She reluctantly takes a closer look. "Wait, is that _Martin_?" Her voice goes high in disbelief. "What the hell is he doing?"  
"I told you he's on an undercover mission."  
She nods.  
"That's part of the mission. Sort of."  
Watching Riggs land a particular vicious hit on his opponent, she turns her head away. "I can't watch this. Please turn it off, baby."  
"I want to, but it's really the only way I get to see the guy. He hasn't checked in for over a week."  
"How is that on your laptop anyway?"  
"It's amazing what you can find on the internet if you have a credit card and are willing to use it."  
"Oh, baby." Trish shakes her head disapprovingly and goes to the bathroom to get ready for bed.  
Roger turns his attention back to the screen, where Riggs ends the fight by popping the other guy in the throat. After watching his partner climb out of the pit and disappear in the crowd, Roger closes the laptop lid. Usually he's grateful for the younger man's ability to always come out on top in a physical confrontation – it's one less thing to worry about. This time though, it kind of scares him how savage he goes about it. Murtaugh knows that Riggs isn't the carefree jackass he likes to pretend to be. He has seen his partner being caring and gentle, but also – in darker moments – angry and vicious or with ice-old focus. But this feels different, somehow.

The worry gets so bad he finds himself making an appointment with the Doc.  
Sitting on the couch waiting for the session to begin, he's nervous. The last time he's been here alone they have been talking about the problems he'd been having with his (metaphorical) gun. To distract himself he bounces up and down on the couch and observes, "This is pretty comfy. No wonder Riggs spends so much time here."  
Cahill smiles indulgently. "Well, it's not exactly his decision to come here. But he has never complained about the softness of the couch, either. So." She flips open a notebook. "What did you want to talk to me about?" She looks at him expectantly."Did your problem reappear?"  
"No, no. Everything is going smoothly in that department. No, this is about Riggs and this mission he's on." He pauses to collect his thoughts.  
Maureen prompts him."Do you think he's going to slip up?"  
"No, he's surprisingly good at undercover work. Or maybe it's not so surprising – being a SEAL, he has to have experience at this kind of thing. I've read they –" He realizes he's starting to ramble and cuts himself off. Trying again, he says, "I'm thinking that he's in too deep, that he's using this assignment as an excuse not to think about other things."  
Murtaugh takes a deep breath. "And I'm not sure if it's okay to doubt my partner. Trish and Avery think I worry too much, but–" He trails off, unsure of how to finish.  
"They don't know him like you do." It's a statement, not a question.  
"Yeah, exactly. And there's been some things lately, like with the guy who abused this girl ... It made me think it wasn't just Miranda's death that messed him up this much. But he just blocks me off whenever I try to talk about it." Murtaugh hesitates. "I know you can't tell me and he probably doesn't talk to you either. But has he said anything to you about why he's always flying off the handle lately?"  
"He has actually become a bit more cooperative. But no, he hasn't said anything about that. What are you afraid of here? The completion of the mission or your partner's safety?"  
"I'm not worried about his physical well-being. I mean, Riggs can take care of himself better than anyone." Suddenly he laughs. "Remember the incident with those Master Race gangsters? He took them out before we even arrived."  
"How could I forget," she answers drily.  
"I'm afraid he'll lose himself. I don't think he'll actually go rogue, but what if he decides he likes this life better? I mean, they have this connection we don't have. What if the other vets give him something that I just can't?" He drops his head in his hands and laughs wearily. "Oh god. It sounds like we're in a relationship." He exhales and raises his gaze to the Doc's. "Sometimes he's just so far away that I can't reach him, even when he's sitting right next to me. You know what I mean?"  
Knowing all too well what Murtaugh's getting at, Maureen nods. "None of us who haven't served know what it's like to be over there, what it does to people. For more qualified advice you should consult the doctors over at the VA, but I know the best thing you can do is listen when he wants to talk. Don't pressure him, or you might push him even farther away. That's my job, anyway."  
"It's not just that. I think something happened before he joined the Navy, maybe when he was a kid."  
"Well, the same thing applies here. Listen and be there. If he talks to you about it, you can feel honored, because that's a sign of great trust. But if he doesn't, you shouldn't feel bad. Some people bury their past so deeply they don't even think about it themselves, much less talk about it – maybe what happened was just too painful. But addressing your concerns, I don't think you have anything to worry about. He definitely has some issues–"  
Murtaugh scoffs softly. "That's an understatement."  
"Alright, _many_ issues that need working out, but he's had them before you or I got along, or probably even Miranda for that matter, and he has become a cop and not a criminal. Despite it all he has developed a finely tuned sense of right and wrong – I think you can trust him to do the right thing."  
"Yeah." Feeling reassured, Murtaugh moves to get up. "Thank you."  
"Glad I could help."

Riggs is about to rob a house. He's sitting in a car along with his fellow criminals, wearing a balaclava and wondering how could it have come to this.  
The whole day there had been something in the air, an almost electric current, as if something was about to happen. And it had: Riggs had currently been instructing Murph on how to defend himself more effectively – as the boy was pretty lacking in that department – when they were told by the Sergeant to join the rest of the team in the lunch room. As soon as everyone was gathered, the Sarge had adopted his favorite pose, hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, and had addressed their newest member. "Since you have been loyal to us, I think the time has come to let you in on our true objective." He smiles proudly. "You may have heard about it on the news."  
Then he had gone on to confirm what Riggs had been already suspecting: Yes, they're the robbers. Yes, they want to get back at the society they feel rejected by. The only new thing is how they choose their marks: They don't hit houses at random, but use the credit card information of the people who log in to their website to determine who's worth going after. He didn't think they had the resources for that. While impressed by their ingenuity, he'd also been disappointed that the Warriors turned out to be just another gang of crooks, solely intent on making money with no consideration for the lives they're ruining.  
Riggs had to ask, "What about the guy you killed and the lady you put into a coma? Our job is to protect civilians, not hurt them."  
"That was a mistake. Things got out of hand. I regret that, but we're fighting a war here – sometimes there's collateral damage. You should know that." A pause for dramatic effect. "So, are you in, soldier?"  
"Yes, sir!" Feeling the other men's eyes on him, Riggs had jumped to attention and saluted smartly, causing their leader to smile in satisfaction.  
"Just as I thought." He had nodded to Sterling who started handing out ski masks. "The mission starts now."  
So with no time for calling his partner or devising a plan, he now has to put an end to this by the seat of his pants. Good thing he's good at that.

In the car, Riggs watches the Sarge punching the addresses of their targets into the GPS. He does a double take. The second one is awfully familiar: It's the Murtaugh's. Riggs manages not to react, but his mind is racing. All his problems are momentarily forgotten, because the Murtaughs' safety matters more. Just as he's thinking that maybe he should try to crash the car, they pull in the driveway of the first house. As he hops out of the car behind their leader, he notices the man has a gun stuffed in his waistband and sighs to himself. _Great_. The situation just got a lot worse.  
The Sarge uses hand signals to convey that they should split up to search the house – Vasquez, Sterling and the Sarge covering the upper parts of the house while Riggs and Murph get the first floor. It's a pleasantly familiar and efficient way of communicating and Riggs makes a mental note to teach it to Roger. His partner already knows the simplified hand signals the LAPD uses, but the more elaborate military version might make them an even more efficient team. He surprises himself with the thought.  
 _Martin Riggs planning for the future, well that's unheard of._ And a big step forward, the Doc would say. But now is not the time for self-congratulation, but for action.  
He moves up behind Murph and chokes him out. As he stops resisting, Riggs gently lowers him to the ground. He feels slightly guilty, because the kid is so trusting he didn't even flinch when Riggs grabbed him. But it's for the best – things will most certainly get violent, if not lethal. And since he has made sure not to accidentally crush the little guy's windpipe, Murph will wake up with nothing more than a bad headache.  
 _One down, three to go._ But first he has to warn Murtaugh. He uses the house's landline to call his partner, but only reaches the voicemail. He rattles down the addresses of this night's marks and adds, "I'll try to stop the guys, but best get your family out there."  
He hopes that Murtaugh gets the message but knows he can't wait for his partner to arrive.  
Readying the switchblade he always carries with him, he silently creeps up the stairs, because despite what Roger thinks, he can be stealthy. From their hushed voices he gathers that all three of them are in the main bedroom on the third floor. _Shit. There goes the stealth.  
_ He pauses in front of the door and wishes for a flash bang and a gun – that way he could clear the room in seconds. Hiding the knife in his sleeve, he pushes the door open and strolls in.  
Seeing everyone grouped around a wall safe, he announces, "I left Murph to secure the front door."  
The Sarge nods in approval. "Good thinking."  
Riggs waits until they are once again focused on the safe, then steps up silently behind the Sergeant. His plan is to take out the Sarge first and get his gun, then the rest is going to be a piece of cake.  
Of course, nothing works as planned: The Sarge is better than he thought. He evades the knife slash narrowly and whirls around, gun already pulled and trained on Riggs. Unlike some criminals, he knows what he's doing and keeps his distance so as not to give Riggs the chance to disarm him.  
Riggs doesn't bother to raise his hands. "If you're going to shoot me, go ahead."  
But the Sarge is pissed and decides to start a monologue. "So our enemy, the state intends–"  
Riggs cuts him off. "Look, it's easy. I'm a cop and I'm here to arrest you. No conspiracy theories necessary."  
"And you think this'll end well for you?"  
"Well, yes – if you all surrender."  
The tall man smiles unpleasantly. "I'm afraid we'll have to do this the hard way, traitor."  
The Sergeant lays the gun down on a desk and raises his fists, an eager, malicious glint in his eyes. Suddenly Riggs knows who beat up the victims – and that it wasn't an accident at all.  
Feeling pretty righteous for once, he mirrors the Sarge's smile. "Oh, I love the hard way."

They circle each other, looking for an opening. Without weapons they're about equally matched and Riggs feels thrilled at finally having a worthy opponent, despite the perilous situation. They close the distance and trade a couple of blows. Riggs draws first blood as he manages to get behind his opponent's defenses. Jerking back to evade another right hook the Sergeant bumps into the desk. His gun clatters to the ground, but the two men are so caught up in their fight they don't even notice. Riggs aims a low kick at the other man's midsection then jumps back as the Sarge pays him back in kind. He slams into Sterling and gets shoved forward again. The momentary distraction costs him – Riggs just has time to see the Sarge's foot coming at him. He tries to twist out of the way, but the roundhouse kick still connects with his hip and sends him flying. He rolls across the floor and bounces off the wall, seeing stars as his head slams against the unforgiving surface. He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision. When the stars recede he sees the Sarge advancing on him, and something else – the gun lying no five feet away from him. He lunges to scoop it up, rolls into a crouched firing position and puts two rounds into the Sarge's chest. Slowly he climbs to his feet, keeping both Vasquez and Sterling in his sights. "You two, turn around, hands behind your back. You're under arrest."  
Vasquez looks at him, a hurt expression on his face, but does as he's told. Sterling, who has been staring at the Sarge's body, seems to wake out of his daze and raises his gaze to Riggs', a murderous expression on his face.  
Riggs points the gun at him and warns, "Don't do it, Sterling.", but to no avail. Letting out an angry roar, Sterling charges, only to get hit with another double tap. But sheer rage and momentum keep carrying him forward and he slams into Riggs. They smash through a window – then they are airborne.


	3. Interlude

[Thank you so much for your kind reviews! And sorry for the delay – I had exams in January and didn't get as much writing done as I'd have liked. That's also why I split the last chapter into three parts – so I could post something sooner. Anyway, on with the story :)]

Murtaugh is at home when he gets Riggs' message. He calls Avery first thing and tells him to post a couple of black and whites at his house. Just in case, he also asks Trish to take the kids to the cinema. With his family taken care of, he hurriedly informs Bailey of the news. Suspiciously enough, when she picks up, he can hear Bowman's voice right next to her.  
 _Bailey and Bowman – together? No way_.  
But he'll have time to ponder that later. Right now he's concentrating on getting safely to his destination while driving at breakneck speed. Ant wondering what he's going to find when he gets there.

His younger colleagues arrive in separate cars, so maybe he had been wrong about that. Or they just want to keep their relationship a secret. Not that it matters much to him one way or the other – Bailey seems just way out of that dork's league.  
But things aren't always what they seem; that much becomes clear to him as they approach the house. Everything sure _seems_ quiet, but it doesn't stay that way for long. Not surprisingly, since Riggs is in there somewhere and the guy sure knows how to make an entrance – or in this case, an exit: Suddenly shots ring out, immediately followed by a crashing sound from above. The three cops look up, then hurriedly jump back as they see two bodies hurtling towards them. They crash through a wooden garden pavilion and land in a heap on the lawn, missing the fence by inches. Guns drawn, Murtaugh and the others cautiously advance on them to see that they're two males wearing ski masks. One of them, a big, burly fellow, lies sprawled on the ground and doesn't move. The other one picks himself up, listing precariously to one side before steadying himself on the fence. Appearing dazed, he leans there for a moment with his chest heaving as he pulls in great lungfuls of air.  
Even with the mask covering his face Murtaugh recognizes him. Relieved, he lowers his gun and shakes his head in amazement at his partner's talent to always land on his feet like a cat.  
Well, at least metaphorically so.  
Finally noticing his combat-ready colleagues, Riggs throws them a sloppy salute and a crooked smile. "Hey guys, stand down. The bad guys are, uh..." He turns in a circle, trying to get his bearings, then points to the window he just fell from. "Up there."  
A Hispanic-looking man is peering down at them. His eyes widen as everyone looks at him and he turns to flee. Bailey and Bowman start running to intercept him. Riggs calls after them, "Another's one in the living room!"  
He watches them go, then pulls off the mask and flings it to the ground in disgust. Murtaugh steps up to his partner and indicates the blood spatter on his clothes. "Yours?"  
Riggs shakes his head. "Nope." His voice is maybe a bit shakier than normal, but otherwise he seems his usual self – annoying, competent and apparently indestructible.  
"Good." Relieved that the situation is resolved without any major repercussions, Murtaugh calls Trish to give her the all-clear.  
The next call goes to their Captain to inform him they've caught the robbers. Avery seems overjoyed at having something good to report to the Chief. While Roger is listening to his superior gushing over how this is going to benefit their division, he feels something brush against his side. He glances to the side, but there's only Riggs, smiling innocently. That in itself is a cause for concern, so it's with a frown that Murtaugh turns his attention back to Avery's words. When he finally ends the call and turns to relay their superior's congratulations to his partner, he realizes Riggs is gone.  
 _That guy, you take your eyes off him for one second..._  
Murtaugh is overcome by a terrible feeling of dejà vu. It seems like lately he is always searching for Riggs, like in the bad old days. He thought they'd gotten past that point in their partnership, but obviously that's not the case.  
The other cops exit the house with the two robbers in tow and Murtaugh calls over to them, "Hey, did you see where Riggs went?"  
Bowman doesn't answer. He is obviously occupied puzzling over the logistics of cuffing an one-armed man. Bailey, pulling a dazed-looking youth along, shrugs. "Sorry, haven't seen him. Did you lose him again?"  
"Seems that way." _Damn it!  
_ The kid looks like he might keel over any moment, so Murtaugh helps Bailey escort him to the car. Once they get him inside, he promptly slumps over. Roger sees incipient bruising on the boy's throat. "What happened to him?"  
"I think Riggs happened."  
"Of course." Then he notices something else. "Where the hell did my car go?"  
He searches his pockets, and yes, his keys are gone, too. Riggs doesn't usually steal from him, so Roger is a bit disconcerted at this new development.  
The only way he can explain this to himself is that his partner needed the car to get home and, currently not being quite right in the head, he didn't think of asking for a ride.  
 _Or maybe he has completely gone off the rails now._  
Well, only one way to find out. He borrows Bowman's car and drives to his partner's trailer.

After knocking on the trailer's door – because he doesn't want to get shot accidentally – Murtaugh enters and finds Riggs in the process of patching himself up. He's sitting on the couch, pulling pieces of glass and wood splinters out of various body parts. There is already a small collection of bloody shards on the table.  
Seeing this, Murtaugh resolves that he'll just stop asking his partner about his well-being. It's futile anyway, because even when the younger man says he's fine and maybe even looks that way, he really isn't. Murtaugh has come to the conclusion that while Riggs can do things that appear damn near superhuman, afterwards he crashes like everyone else – only more spectacularly so because of the things he pushed his body to do. The best he can do is wait and hope the fallout isn't too bad.  
Watching Riggs applying the tweezers with quick, efficient movements, he observes, "You've experience with this, haven't you."  
His partner shrugs nonchalantly. "Yeah. You get blasted by shrapnel enough times, it gets kind of routine."  
"Not to mention all the jumping out of windows."  
"Mm-hmm." Riggs takes a rag that looks like he used it to clean the floor to wipe away the blood.  
"Man, at least use some disinfectant."  
The younger man motions to a bottle standing at the table. "JD – disinfects and numbs all in one." He takes a swig, then pours some over the rag and presses it to a wound in his side.  
Murtaugh grimaces and averts his gaze. "I can't look at this, that's not hygienic."  
"Then don't. But pass me that needle from the counter behind you."  
Roger locates it. Holding it up, he notices it's straight rather than curved. He squints at it in the dim light. Then he realizes– "That's a fucking sewing needle!"  
Unimpressed, Riggs holds out his hand. "Yeah, I lost the other one. Doesn't matter, it works just as fine." Murtaugh only looks at him skeptically, so he reaches up to take it from his hand. He starts sewing up the deepest cuts, which aren't many, thank god. Still... Roger doesn't consider himself squeamish – he's a homicide detective after all and has seen many gruesome things – but seeing the needle repeatedly piercing the skin makes him feel slightly queasy. To distract himself, he says, "So, you weren't kidding when you said you could do your own stitches."  
"'Course I wasn't. I don't know why you're still surprised."  
"I'm not. Just gathering facts for this hypothesis of mine."  
"About what?"  
"Well..." _Might as well admit it_. "You and your whole deal."  
Predictably, Riggs just can't leave that uncommented. "Aww, been thinking about me? That's really cute."  
"Well, yes," Murtaugh replies a little stiffly, "For the sake of this partnership – and my heart – I've been trying to figure out what makes you tick–"  
"And what makes me go _boom_?" Riggs adds, with a rueful little half-smile  
"Especially that."  
"Well, there's nothing to figure out, Rog. I'm a simple man."  
"Yeah, right," he mutters sarcastically  
That seems to have struck a nerve, because Riggs abruptly changes the subject.  
"What are you doing here anyway?"  
"When your partner gets missing, you start to look for him, that's just what you do. Not to forget that you _stole my car!_ "  
The younger man waves that away. "I didn't steal it, I borrowed it. Big difference."  
While Riggs is occupied with his haphazard first-aid efforts, Murtaugh watches and waits for the inevitable. And sure enough, by the time his partner has applied the last stitch, he's sweating and has gone a bit grey in the face. He lays down the needle and swallows convulsively, then lurches to the bathroom. Even though he closes the door behind him, the trailer's walls are thin and Murtaugh can hear him retching. Wincing, he feels his own gorge rise in sympathy and steps outside to give the younger man some privacy.

Riggs feels like crap. Bringing up pretty much everything he's eaten this week has lessened the nausea, but now his head feels like it's about to split. He rests his forehead on the toilet seat, hoping the cool material might ease the throbbing in his skull.  
It doesn't. And the smell rising from the bowl is making him nauseous all over again, so he flushes the toilet and slowly climbs to his feet. He pushes back the hair that sticks to his sweat-soaked face and squints at his reflection, noticing that he looks like crap, too. Good thing he's not vain.  
After rinsing his mouth and washing his face, he straightens up. Suddenly, he's hit by a wave of dizziness and has to hold on to the sink until his head clears. As he feels steadier, he pushes away. A bit too early, it turns out – he has only managed a couple of steps when the whole world suddenly seems to slide sideways and he falls. Hitting his head again, he blacks out for a moment.

When he comes to, he doesn't know where he is. He gingerly lifts his head and tries to get his bearings. He's lying on his side on the floor and his head hurts like hell. In the back of his throat there's the taste of iron; it makes him want to retch. These pieces of intel don't really help clear things up, though – there's many a time he has woken up like this.  
Suddenly a panicky thought flashes through his brain. _Quick, get up and run before Dad comes back!_ Frantically he tries to scramble to his feet, but his legs refuse to cooperate and he just falls down again. He's panting and darkness is encroaching on the edges of his vision before his muddled brain manages to pull him back to the present. He takes a deep breath to collect himself and gets up shakily, glad that his partner is still outside and hasn't witnessed this humiliating freak-out.  
Riggs stumbles back to the couch where he slumps down and starts to massage his temples, marveling at how spectacularly awful he feels. His head hurts so much he almost has double vision and his hip still aches where the Sarge clipped him. The rest of his body isn't any better; the fall seems to have rattled all his bones. He's just glad he managed to rotate in midair to avoid Sterling falling on him, otherwise he would have been squashed flat.  
On the other hand, having been killed in the fall would have finally put an end to all his problems. Quickly he tries to force that dark thought away. Considering the easy way out means once again going down a dangerous road – just when eating his gun has stopped being so damn tempting.

While his partner is praying to the porcelain god Murtaugh uses the time to make a phone call – the check-in he had been berating Riggs about – hoping his wife will forgive him for missing another family dinner. But being the awesome person she is, he's sure she will. At least as soon as he mentions it's for Riggs's sake; Trish has always had a soft spot for him.  
"I'm sorry, I can't make it tonight."  
"No worries, we'll just make it a girl's night. What's keeping you?"  
"It's Riggs, he's not doing so good. I think he has finally managed to get a concussion, someone should stay with him tonight."  
As he thought, Trish instantly goes into mothering mode and practically coos, "Oh, the poor thing. Why don't you bring him over?"  
"I don't know, he's in pretty bad shape. I don't want him puking all over my car."  
"Okay. And you're sure you've got this?"  
"Yeah, I watched over Riana when she had the concussion after falling off the jungle gym. I imagine this won't be much different."  
As if to prove him wrong, he hears a muffled thump coming from the trailer.  
"Baby, I gotta go."  
 _What is that guy doing in there?  
_ Back in the trailer, Murtaugh looks around suspiciously. Everything seems to be in order, but he's sure he heard something.  
"What did you...?"  
"Huh?" Riggs squints up at him. He's looking even worse than before, if such a thing is even possible. Probably the headache setting in now, if the way he cringed at his words is any clue. Murtaugh lowers his voice. "Nevermind. You have any blankets here?"  
"Why?"  
"Because I'll be staying the night. Someone needs to look after you."  
"Really not–" Riggs breaks off and grimaces, holding his head.  
Great, now he's worried. For the younger man to show pain this clearly, it must be bad. He says, "Maybe we should go to the hospital, get you checked out."  
"No," Riggs grates out between clenched teeth "It's okay, it'll pass."  
Murtaugh wants to laugh at the absurdity of it – why is he being comforted, he's not the one in pain – but the situation doesn't really call for laughter.  
Feeling helpless, he sits down next to his partner, hand hovering indecisively in mid-air. He wants to give comfort, it's really built into his nature, but there are some things Riggs doesn't take kindly to. Pity is one of them. As is comfort. But Roger has never been able to watch people suffer – it's one of the reasons he became a cop – especially when he considers those people part of the family. So when Riggs moans softly and curls into a ball, face scrunched up in agony, he tentatively places the hand on his back, and begins rubbing it in soothing circles. Through the thin shirt he can feel his tense muscles and the tremors running along them.  
After a while – probably just a couple of minutes, but it sure felt longer – the younger man relaxes slightly.  
Roger speaks up softly, "I hate to sound like a broken record, but maybe you should really consider a hospital. At least they could give you something against the pain."  
Riggs shakes his head, eyes still closed "I just want to sleep."  
"I'm guessing you don't have any pain killers in your little sewing kit?"  
"I got all the pain killers I need right there." He gestures to the bottle of whiskey.  
"I don't think drinking alcohol is really the best idea right now." Roger reaches over and puts it out of the other man's immediate reach. He expects Riggs to argue, but he stays quiet – apparently he has gone to sleep. He decides to let him rest and just search for the blankets himself, hoping he doesn't stumble over anything too private. After some digging around, he finally locates them in a closet. They're ratty and slightly musty smelling, but clean. He takes one for himself and covers his sleeping partner with the other. As an afterthought he also places a waste bucket next to Riggs' head in case he has to hurl again. Then he doubtfully looks at the easy chair. He really doesn't want to spend the night in it – it's going to be hell on his back. Well, he guesses it's either that or the floor.  
Wrapping himself in the blanket, he settles in the chair. For lack of anything better to do, and to be on the safe side, he searches the internet for tips on dealing with concussion victims. What he finds is the rather worrisome advice to rule out the possibility of brain damage. Apparently he should wake Riggs at regular intervals and check if he's coherent and responds to pain. It sounds easy enough, but with his obstinate partner it probably won't be. Setting the alarm an hour from now, he puts the phone away and tries to make himself comfortable.  
 _This is gonna be a long night._


	4. Absolution

[Thanks to all reviewers – you're all so very lovely! It always brings a big grin to my face when I read your feedback 3  
To someonethe3rd: Thanks for asking! I'd say my exams went reasonably well ;)  
FrostyFirebender: I've tried very hard at keeping Riggs' character consistent with the show, glad you think I succeeded! Also I've added some more spaces in this chapter, I hope it's better this way.  
Rahki: Definitely! Though I'm not so sure about the _soon_...]

When the shrill beeping rings through the trailer Riggs wakes up and groans, "Oh god, what is that?"  
"My alarm..."  
"Turn it off, Rog."  
"I'm on it." He fumbles for the phone, finally locates it in his jacket pocket and silences the incessant beeping.  
"So. How are you feeling? Do you know what year it is?"  
"No."  
Roger asks in alarm, "No, you don't know what year it is?"  
"Just no. I'm going back to sleep." Riggs closes his eyes and does just that.  
Murtaugh sighs. That went about as well as he expected. He wonders if he should maybe poke his partner and insist on his questions, but he doesn't want to be the annoying one in this partnership. He decides to leave it be.

The second time the alarm rings Riggs is so deeply asleep he doesn't even stir. Remembering to stay out of punching distance, Murtaugh looks around, searching for an object to throw. Thanks to Riggs' rather manic clean-up, he can't find any suitable objects – not unless he wants to chuck the bottle of whiskey at him. So, after a moment of consideration, he takes off one of his shoes and lightly throws it at the sleeping form of his partner. Riggs jerks awake and as predicted lashes out at the offending object. When his mind catches up to his body he throws Murtaugh an accusing glance and hoarsely exclaims, "Ow! What the hell, Rog?"  
"So, that's a yes to pain response. Who's the president?"  
Riggs doesn't dignify that with an answer, just wraps himself tighter in the blanket and grumbles, "Fuck off."  
"Hey, I'm doing this for your sake."  
"You sure? Sounds like you're having fun."  
"Believe me, staying with you in this drafty trailer is not my idea of fun." He sticks a wetted finger into the air. "There's definitely a breeze in here."  
"Window's cracked," comes the muffled response from the couch. "I haven't gotten around to fixing it."  
Murtaugh shakes his head. "I don't understand how you can live here. This shitheap really isn't fit for a human to live in."  
"Hey, it's my home, don't insult it." Riggs starts to sound a bit testy. "And you can sleep at your place if you don't like it here."  
"I know. But I'm staying."  
"Why?"  
The younger man seems unable to grasp the concept, so Roger explains it to him, slowly, to get it through that thick head of his. "That's just what you do in a family."  
"Hmm. In my family we did things a little different," Riggs mutters before dozing off again. Roger puzzles over that statement until the sound of his partner's deep, even breathing and the crashing surf outside lulls him back to sleep. He has to admit, living on the beach like a hobo has its merits.

The next time Murtaugh wakes up even before the alarm rings. He looks around, not sure what has roused him, when a movement from the couch catches his attention. Riggs is twitching and mumbling in his sleep, clearly having a nightmare. Roger thinks he can make out the words _no_ and _don't_. It sounds like he's desperately pleading with someone, so whatever he's dreaming, it must be bad. It's a heart-wrenching thing to witness, he wants to wake him. Throwing something now seems cruel to Roger, so he gets closer and cautiously reaches out to nudge his partner's shoulder. He gets the usual disproportionate reaction, but it's not the one he expected: Riggs doesn't swing a fist at him when he sees his partner standing over him, but instead flinches back violently and raises a hand as if to protect himself. There's pure, unadulterated fear in his eyes. Roger hurriedly takes a step back and holds out his hands to show he won't hurt him. "Woah, easy, buddy. It's okay. It's just me."

It's a dream. He knows it's a dream, or rather a memory, because he's twelve again, sitting in his old bedroom and listening for his father to come home. He tries to remind himself that it isn't real, that he's a grown man now and well able to protect himself, but soon all conscious thought fades as he gets caught up in the nightmare. When he hears the yelling and crashing start downstairs – good old dad is a loud drunk – he reacts as he did as a child, bolting out of the house to hide in the broken-down car at the edge of their property. It's a good hiding spot, he hasn't been found so far and now he's lying there, fervently wishing it's going to stay this way. But of course it doesn't. Shaking in fear, he hears the heavy steps get closer, then pause. He waits, trying not to make a sound despite the trembling that's getting so bad his teeth are chattering. Suddenly the trunk lid is ripped open and there's his dad, gleefully exclaiming, 'Found you, boy!'  
Despite his struggling he gets pulled out of the car by his hair and brutally thrown to the ground, where his father sets on him with belt and fists. And he won't let off, no matter how much Riggs begs; all he can do is curl up into a ball and wait for it to end.  
Finally the blows let up. While he's busy coughing and spitting out blood from a bitten tongue, he hears his father's voice. He sounds more conciliatory now he's been able to vent his anger.  
"C'mon, get up. Let's get back inside." The man nudges him with the toe of his boot.  
Knowing he expects instant obedience, Riggs tries to do as told, but it's slow going. He can already sense his father getting impatient and braces himself.  
"I said _get up_!" A kick lands in his midriff, knocking him back down. A second, more forceful kick follows. He gasps and curls around the pain. _Please, no more._  
Muttering angrily, his dad hauls him roughly to his feet and tows him back to the house.

So when Riggs wakes up the situation is horribly familiar to him – he's in pain and there's a dark figure looming over him, hand extended to hurt him further. He mentally prepares himself for the inevitable when the words get through to him. Or rather the voice that's saying those words, because it's not the gruff, angry voice of his father but a much softer tone.  
Riggs lets out a weary breath, willing his racing heart to calm, and scrubs a hand over his face. He hates that Roger has seen this moment of weakness. Levering his aching body into a sitting position, he reaches for the bottle sitting on the table, but his hands are shaking too badly to open it. He sets it back down with more force than necessary and bends over, resting his elbows on his knees, and buries his hands in his hair. He desperately wants to get out of his head, because right now he's unable to stop the flood of memories that threatens to drown him. He shudders, remembering how after the beating his father had locked him in a closet for days, so he – to quote the man himself – 'doesn't have to look at his pathetic excuse of a son.' Riggs had been half-crazed with pain, hunger and thirst by the time he let him out again.  
Too much, it's just too much. The room is way too dark and saturated with the smell of blood and sweat. He's back in that tiny airless closet and... he can't breathe. Fucking ridiculous, but he can't help it. He has to get out of here.

The shock was almost as bad for Roger. He has never seen his partner look like this, all wide eyes and fear. He experiences another unpleasant jolt when Riggs suddenly lurches to his feet and slams through the door with such force it impacts against the trailer's wall. The loud _bang_ startles Roger and gets him moving. He jumps out the door just to see the younger man running toward the sea. The sudden realization – Riggs doesn't need a gun to kill himself – makes his stomach turn. Rationally, he doesn't think the younger man would really try to drown himself in his presence, but at this point they're both well past rational. He starts running himself.

Even in this state Riggs is fast, he has already reached the water and throws himself into its depths. Roger watches his friend disappear in the waves, curses and urges his legs to move faster. Riggs, though, is already reemerging and trudges back in the direction he'd come. He manages to get just above the water line before he collapses, making no move to get up again.  
Roger reaches his side and falls on his knees. Breathless, he gasps out. "What the hell are you doing? You're scaring me, man."  
Riggs doesn't react, just stares past him with unseeing eyes.  
"Hey, you okay?" Roger winces internally at the wording. Of course he's not okay. He reaches out to nudge his partner's shoulder.  
"Don't touch me!" The younger man twists away and draws himself up into a half-crouch, poised to run. He doesn't seem to recognize him.  
"Okay, sorry. Sorry. I won't."  
Riggs still eyes him warily for a moment, then settles back down.  
Murtaugh is at a loss. About a million questions are bouncing around in his head, and he feels he's entirely unqualified to handle this situation. Then he remembers the Doc's advice and gratefully latches onto it. _Don't push. Just be there_. So he lies down, rests his head on his clasped hands and looks up into the sky. Out here, untouched by light pollution, the stars and full moon are visible in a breathtaking display of natural beauty. A light breeze blows in from the ocean and tugs at his shirt. It's incredibly idyllic, but Roger barely notices. He's got the feeling he has finally gotten a glimpse at what it really looks like inside his partner's mind. It's an uncomfortable thought – because if so, Riggs is even more messed up than he thought.

"Rog?"  
The voice is so cracked and weak he's not sure he has heard something. Turning his head, he sees Riggs looking back at him, his greenish-brown eyes still dark with pain, but thankfully lucid.  
Incredible relief floods him. "Hey. You with me again? You were gone a while there."  
Riggs nods.  
"You know, if you ever want to talk about whatever's bothering you... I'm here. It might help."

The sympathy in Roger's voice all but kills him. He doesn't want this, doesn't want the other man to feel bad for him, to think less of him. But he's tired of hurting and the chance of relief, however small, that Roger offers is too tempting to pass up. So he clears his throat, takes a deep breath and, for the first time ever, starts telling the story of that horrible night. And he doesn't stop there; as if a dam has broken he finds himself recounting events he had thought he'd take to his grave.

Roger listens to the string of beatings and humiliations, physical and verbal abuse that Riggs reveals. As he's talking, the unmistakably rural and Southern cadence in his voice gets more pronounced. Murtaugh can just imagine a ramshackle farmhouse in some Texan backwater and a little Riggs living there – with a violent alcoholic as a father. It makes him almost physically sick, to think about what it must have been like to grow up in such an environment.  
Just as he thinks he can't take anymore, Riggs falls quiet.  
Murtaugh doesn't know what to say. He's horrified, quite frankly, but tries not to let it show, he has the feeling that would be the wrong thing to do. Instead he climbs to his feet and holds his hand out to his partner. After a moment's hesitation Riggs reaches up and grips it tightly, letting Roger pull him up. He starts toward the trailer, struggling through the sand. Roger follows closely and catches the younger man as his knees buckle without warning.  
"I've got you." He wraps an arm around his partner's waist, slings his arm over his shoulders, and supports him the rest of the way. That Riggs doesn't protest is a testament to how spent he is – finally telling his story must have really drained him. They stumble over the uneven ground like a particularly inept team at a three-legged race, almost falling a couple of times, before they finally reach the trailer.

Once back inside, Riggs flops onto the couch and immediately drops off. Roger sinks down in the chair and rubs both hands over his face. He fears sleep won't come so easy for him. Half-carrying his partner had not been an easy task – despite his wiry built Riggs is surprisingly heavy. But the weight of his broken past is even greater. Roger almost wishes back for the time he had only suspected and not _known_ , especially not the awful details.  
Mind reeling with what he learned, he watches his partner sleeping until the sun rises.


	5. Resolution

[Hey everyone! Sorry for the late update, for some reason this took me incredibly long to write. I still have some stuff left that I plan to add later as 'deleted scenes', but for now, this is the final chapter. Enjoy :)  
And again a big thanks to everyone who reviewed, 'favorited' and followed!]

The first thing Riggs hears is his partner complaining. Not quite awake yet, he lies there for a moment, listening to Roger move around the trailer, opening drawers and shutting them, all the while grumbling sotto voce about the lack of kitchenware, the pain in his back, the itchy feeling of sand all over him and so on. Riggs grins to himself. It's a comfortingly familiar sound and he almost goes right back to sleep, even though he's vaguely wondering what the other man is doing here.  
Suddenly it all comes back to him – the dream, the feeling of drowning in the memories, his futile attempt of clearing his head in the ocean, then talking and talking.  
And Roger right there the whole time.  
 _Oh, shit_.  
As the realization hits him, he opens his eyes wide, just to immediately squeeze them shut again. It's still early and the sun low on the horizon, so its rays fall directly into his face, making the fiery headache that had simmered down overnight come back full force. He groans involuntarily and all movement ceases, as if Roger had just frozen in place.  
After the pain has once again lessened to a steady, pulsing ache that's easy to ignore, Riggs sits up slowly and turns to face his partner. His whole being is burning with shame. He sincerely wishes he could take back what happened last night, just erase all of it – the fact that Roger knows what he has tried to hide for so long, but also the way he found out.  
Not his proudest moment, to say the least.  
Now he's afraid of the other man's reaction. Maybe Roger feels the same, because he isn't moving either. For a long, incredibly awkward moment they wait, all but holding their breaths, until Roger sets down the cup he's holding and states, "You're up."  
"Yeah." Riggs tries for a normal, nonchalant tone of voice and he believes he mostly succeeds. But he can't bring himself to look at Roger and fixes his gaze on his partner's socked feet instead.  
"I wanted to make coffee. Didn't mean to wake you."  
Riggs glances up and sees that his partner is staring slightly to his left; he too apparently reluctant to make eye contact.  
"Don't sweat it."  
The older man nods distractedly; he seems to be searching for something to say. His face lights up as he finds it. "I better get home, see how Trish and the kids are doing."  
"Good idea," Riggs agrees readily, glad this uncomfortable situation is coming to an end.  
Roger grabs his jacket from the chair, hesitates, then makes a move toward the couch, probably to retrieve the shoe that's still lying there. But he stops himself and steps out the door with a hurried "Bye!"  
Riggs sinks back and throws an arm over his face. He has to resist the urge to kick something, the chair, the table or preferably himself.

Hours later and considerably drunker, Riggs still feels bitterly angry. At himself, but also at the social workers and shrinks who used to tell him he'd feel better if he talked about his problems. Boy, were they wrong.  
The only thing he has achieved by finally spilling his guts is scaring his partner away.  
It didn't get miraculously rid of the memories, or made them hurt any less. They're still fucking there, fighting for his attention, willing to be acknowledged.  
But he won't do that. He has found the perfect way to fight both them and the headache: Alternatively drinking and napping in the cool shade beside his trailer, with the sound of the waves to remind him he's far away from the arid plains of Texas. Drinking because it makes the memories at least temporarily fuzzy and distant, and napping so he won't sleep deep enough to dream.  
It also keeps him from wondering if things will ever be the same between him and Roger, or if the other man even wants to continue working with him.

The silver lining to this whole fucking mess is that he won't have to deal with any of it in the foreseeable future – earlier Avery called to deliver one of his patented compliment sandwiches and told him to take the next days off to recuperate. Riggs plans to spend them right here in the sand, drunk as a skunk.  
But apparently sprawling on the ground for hours without moving isn't acceptable behavior around here; he has to keep reassuring beachgoers that he's not dead. The next time he hears approaching footsteps, he just waves a hand in the air. "Still alive here."  
"And it better stay that way."  
"Trish?" He opens his eyes in surprise and sees his partner's wife standing over him, sleekly elegant and professional in a knee-long black dress, like she just stepped right out of the courtroom.  
"Hi, Martin."  
"Hey. What are you doin' here?" He climbs to his feet and shakes himself like a wet dog to dislodge the sand.  
Trish watches him with equal parts concern and amusement. "I'm on my way to see a client and thought I'd drop by to check on you."  
"That's real nice of you." He drags up a smile that he hopes doesn't look as forced as it feels. "But I'm fine. Couldn't be better."  
"Mm-hmm" is the sarcastic answer, because the lines around his eyes, etched deeper with pain, tell a different story. She bends down and picks up an empty bottle, one of several that litter the immediate vicinity, and sighs. "Oh Martin, I really wish you wouldn't do this to yourself."  
Riggs shrugs. It actually keeps him from doing worse things to himself, but she wouldn't understand. Nor does he want her to.  
"Why don't you come stay with us until you're better?"  
"I don't wanna impose–"  
Trish interrupts him firmly. "Don't be ridiculous. You know you always have a place with us."  
That earns her a small, almost shy smile that lights up his bruised face.  
Though she hates to ruin the mood, she has to ask, because just like her husband this morning, Martin seems a little off – and it's not just the shirt he's wearing inside out.  
"What happened last night? Roger's really rattled."  
"He is?" Guilt stabs at Riggs, paired with a hefty dose of self-hate. His partner didn't deserve to have all that crap dumped on him, just because he's too weak to deal with it on his own.  
Trish nods. "And he won't tell me why, or how he lost his shoes, for that matter. So what happened?"  
He looks away and scratches the stubble he hasn't bothered to shave. "Nothing happened."  
"Somehow I don't believe that."  
Despite himself, Riggs cracks a smile. "You Murtaughs are a real persistent bunch, y'know? Always wanting to talk about everything." He ducks his head. "But I can't, Trish. I just ... can't."  
Or rather, he doesn't want to. He has just managed to push the memories back down where they belong, into the murky depths of his subconscious.  
"Okay." She takes pity and changes the subject. "I'm going to swing by the store later. You need anything?"  
Riggs opens his mouth to reply, but she says, "I'll just check for myself, if you don't mind," and disappears inside the trailer.  
He knows she'll find the fridge empty except for beer, a container of week-old take-out and some not quite moldy cheese. He is still to queasy to eat, so he doesn't mind the lack of food. But Trish apparently does, because she comes back out with a disapproving expression.  
"I'll come back later to bring you some real food."  
Somehow she makes that sound like a threat.

The LAPD shut down the fight club. It took them two whole days booking all the men and women arrested during the raid. Then came the paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. It has left Murtaugh with no time to visit his partner. At least that's what he tells himself. The truth is he needs some time to come to terms with what happened. He was shocked to see Riggs so – he is reluctant to even think it – _broken_ that he couldn't bear being touched, when usually he is pretty physical in showing his affection. Roger knows that it was an extreme situation, that he was hurt and confused and probably still caught up in the nightmare. Still, it has confirmed one of his greatest fears: That Riggs is not alright, and might never be. And there's nothing he can do about that.  
"Hey big guy, watcha moping about?"  
Roger blinks. The object of his thoughts has just strolled in like nothing happened. It's way too early for him to be back at work after his concussion, but that kind of thing has stopped surprising Roger.  
Riggs flops into his chair and grins at him. To the casual observer he might appear normal, even happy. But Roger sees through the false cheer. After all, he's had a whole year to learn to read the signs, small ones and billboard-sized ones, to know that this is Riggs trying to cover up how awful he really feels. Pretending is one of Riggs' favorite coping methods, but Roger can't just go on like everything is fine. His partner might be beyond fixing, but he has to at least try, doesn't he? Murtaugh steels himself and opens his mouth to speak.  
Riggs immediately sits straighter, his expression cautious and watchful. It reminds Roger too much of how he looked that night. He thinks, _This is wrong_. They're partners, and partners shouldn't have to be on their guard around each other. So he drops it and instead says, "It's this new case I'm working on. This woman killed what looks like three random people and claims the devil made her do it, but I'm not buying it. I think there's some other motive at play here." He slides the file over to his partner. "What do you think?"  
Before leaning in to read it, Riggs gives him a grateful nod.  
Murtaugh nods back, secretly relieved, because what would he have said anyway?

After this unspoken agreement their lives have finally normalized. They're again working side by side, solving cases and kicking asses. They also avoid all non-work related contact, but so what? There are a lot of cops who keep their professional and private lives separate. It works just fine.

Even so, Murtaugh feels slightly guilty about letting the younger man keep his silence, because he's condoning a very unhealthy behavior. And while Riggs might be doing better physically, the same can't be said for his mental state: Lately he's looking even more rumpled than usual, obviously not sleeping well, and smells of alcohol more often than not. He must be drinking heavily again.  
It doesn't interfere with his work, not yet, but it complicates things. Murtaugh has to keep an eye out both for perps and for his partner who may or may not be too drunk to shoot straight. He can't really be mad at him, not after everything he now knows, but there are times he finds himself thinking his life used to be much easier before the crazy Texan showed up with his never-ending list of problems.

A week passes before Murtaugh decides it can't go on like this and resolves to do something about it. (Or rather, Trish makes him do something, because she is tired of his brooding.)  
He skips dinner, even though they're ordering pizza today, and goes to search for his partner. Naturally, Riggs is in a bar. Entering the seedy establishment, Roger spies a familiar figure sitting at the counter and slides onto the stool next to him. Riggs acknowledges him with a grunt. He is holding a tumbler in his hand, a little pyramid of empty shot glasses before him.  
The bartender notices the newcomer and comes over, refills Riggs' glass and pours a fresh one for Murtaugh.  
He doubtfully studies the piss-colored liquid. After taking a careful sip he grimaces in distaste. _Leave it to Riggs to order the shittiest booze in the bar_. It tastes like paint thinner and burns his throat. But he guesses it's good if you want to forget your problems and punish yourself in one fell swoop – and destroy a few brain cells in the meantime.  
"Good stuff." It comes out more sarcastic than intended. "Whiskey?"  
His partner snorts. "Might be." He clinks his glass against Roger's, says, "Bottoms up," and tosses the rest of his drink back.  
The older man follows his example, gulping down the vile brew. Maybe it's not the worst idea; a slight buzz might make the talk ahead easier for them. He just has to stop Riggs before he gets completely shit-faced.  
The second glass is just as bad as the first. The third is even worse. But the fourth tastes surprisingly inoffensive. Either he's getting used to it or his taste buds have finally given up the ghost. He's considering this frightening possibility when Riggs speaks up again.  
"I visited Murph today, offered to speak on his behalf in court. He refused." He stares moodily into the depths of his glass. "Poor kid, he's had such a shitty deal. I just want to help him, but he won't let me. It's frustrating."  
Roger is immediately much more sober. He won't get a better opportunity. _Here goes nothing_. With a meaningful look, he says, "I know the feeling."  
Riggs returns the look. "I hope you don't mean me."  
"Yeah, I kind of do."  
"Why? My life wasn't so bad."  
"Like hell it wasn't! It gave _me_ nightmares."  
Riggs raises his scarred eyebrow. "Seriously? You're overreacting. You always do that."  
But he is amazed, once again, by the other man's endless resources of empathy, a trait he shares with his wife.  
"No, I don't!" his partner protests, voice growing high in outrage.  
His partner throws him an amused look, so he concedes, "Okay, yeah, sometimes I do overreact. But not this time. What happened to you ... there are no words."  
Riggs looks like he might want to argue, but Roger keeps talking, fast, to finally get it off his chest. "And I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."  
"Don't be. It's not your fault." Riggs picks at the half-healed scabs on his knuckles to avoid the other man's eyes.  
"Not yours either." Roger knows he's on thin ice here, and has to proceed with caution. Softly, he continues, "You do know that, right? None of this was your fault. Man, you were just a kid. It's your father who's to blame." He taps the counter top for emphasis. "He was one evil son of a bitch."  
"Yeah, he is." Riggs looks torn admitting it, as if he doesn't know whether to hit someone or start running. There is a complicated, volatile mix of emotions at play here. Hate is clearly the predominant one, but underneath there are also lots of other ones, leaving him deeply conflicted. Roger has noticed that early on during that night on the beach, in the way Riggs kept making excuses even after describing how his father, in one of his many drunk rages, tossed him down a flight of stairs:  
 _"I don't blame him for wanting to blow off steam. I mean, we didn't exactly have it easy. He had to work two shitty jobs to support himself and his good-for-nothing kid at home."_ Roger vividly remembers the anger he'd felt at the wretched excuse of a man who'd take out his problems on his own kid. It got even worse when Riggs went on to say, _"It's just, sometimes it came so out of the blue. You never knew what set him off."_ And then, in a quiet, halting voice, as if he's ashamed to admit it: _"I was so scared, all of the time."_  
Which is bitterly ironic, considering he used to think his partner's main problem is that he doesn't know fear.  
Then it occurs to him what Riggs said. "Wait, your father is _alive_? I thought your friend–" He mimes shooting a rifle.  
Riggs nods bitterly. "It didn't kill him. Guy's like a cockroach."  
"Huh. So where is he now?"  
"Amarillo Federal Prison."  
Roger whistles softly. "Wow, that sucks."  
"Yep."  
Murtaugh sits back, trying to process it all. He has learned more about his partner in the last week than in the whole last year. One thing still bothers him, though. Tentatively, he asks, "What about your mother? Is she still in Texas, too?" Because there must have been a mother at one point, from what he has been able to glean from his stories.  
"No, she passed away when I was little." Riggs picks up his glass and drains the contents, then explains, "Cancer. She fought it, but in the end..." His grip on the tumbler tightens as he flashes back to that afternoon.  
 _The bang of a revolver going off. Brain and skull fragments on the wall. Standing there, listening to the rattle of her dying breath before his father pulled him away._  
A sudden sharp pain in his hand brings him back to the present. He sets down the remains of the tumbler and shakes his hand absently, decorating the counter with red spots.  
Trying for calm, he asks, "We done now?"  
Roger hands him a wad of paper napkins. _So much for the whole story._ There seems to be yet another layer to it.  
"You'll have to talk about it eventually. It's eating you up inside, I can see it. And Cahill is your best bet for that. She helped you so far, didn't she?"  
"Yeah." Riggs sighs. "And I know. But that means I'll have to deal with all this crap, and I'm not ready." He helps himself to Roger's drink. "For now, I'll just stick to this."  
Before Roger can say his piece about this coping strategy, glass shatters behind them, immediately followed by yells as two men start whaling on each other. Soon the whole bar joins in, as if they were all just waiting for an excuse to brawl.  
"Or that." Riggs breaks into a wild grin.  
Roger groans."Oh no, not again."  
The younger man slaps him on the shoulder. "C'mon, it's gonna be fun!"  
With a whoop of joy he wades into the fray. Throwing back the rest of his drink to fortify himself, Roger follows.

"Cocksucker! Gonna fuck you up, you motherfucking cop!"  
The guy menacing Roger is skinny to the point of emaciation. With the greasy hair and sunken cheeks he's not a pretty sight. He's also spewing insults nonstop. It bothers Roger. Not so much the insults – after all his years as a cop he's used to that – but the fact that he's been made so easily. After all, he knows the type of bar Riggs frequents and has dressed for the occasion in his leather jacket and black jeans. He thought he'd fight right in, but apparently that's not the case.  
The guy is still going on, his mouth moving as fast as his fists. He keeps making little jabs and punches in his direction without really making contact while he dances around him. Roger has to turn in a circle to keep him in sight. He could probably just wait until Speedy tires himself out, but the constant turning is making him dizzy. So he cuts the fight short by kicking him in the crotch, putting all his weight into it. With a comic little squeak the man folds to the ground.

Riggs' opponent is an older dude with a Led Zeppelin beard. After a swift kick to lower his defenses, he uses the man's impressive facial hair to pull him into range and headbutts him in the face. The man topples over backwards.  
In the brief lull in the action Riggs looks over to where his partner is fighting and smirks as he sees how Roger got rid of his opponent. He steps back as another interlocked pair of fighters sails by and instinctively ducks the next swipe aimed at him. He turns to face a guy with a camouflage-patterned jacket and a mean look in his eyes, obviously jacked up on something. Probably meth, judging by the bad teeth and worse smell rising off him. A knife flashes in his hand. It's a kitchen knife, by the looks of it, but those can be just as deadly.  
Riggs shakes his head in disapproval. "You don't bring a knife to a bar fight," he explains. "It's a just matter of honor."  
The man sneers. "Yeah? I'll give you fucking honor when I gut you like a fucking fish." He lunges forward.  
Riggs doesn't want to get cut up tonight, so he evades, backstepping and dodging the wild slashes while waiting for an opening.  
The man grunts and pants, getting angry and sloppy. "Stand and fight, you fucking coward!"  
Riggs just grins in response. It's not a nice grin. He evades another slash aimed at his throat, grabs the wrist as it swings by and, with a half-step to the left, positions his other hand on the outside of the guy's elbow. A sharp jerk, and the joint suddenly bends in the wrong direction. The meth head doesn't feel the pain, but his now nerveless fingers can no longer hold the knife. After that, he's easy prey.

Having dispatched his latest opponent, Murtaugh looks over the surging bodies for his partner. A punch in the nose is the punishment for letting his attention wander. He stumbles back and, through watering eyes, sees the guy advancing. In his panic he grabs a miraculously intact beer mug from a table and smashes it over his attacker's head.  
Holding his bloody nose, Roger waits for the next contestant, but there is none. As is mostly the case, the fight is over as quickly as it began. The battered patrons are leaning against the walls or lying unconscious on the floor, surrounded by shattered furniture. Only a few hardy pairs are still fighting.  
Roger locates his partner. He has brought his current opponent to the ground and is now kneeling astride him, hand fisted in the guy's collar, and punches him repeatedly in the face. The prone man no longer offers any resistance, his face slack and already bloody in several places.  
Roger crouches next to them and observes, "I think he's had enough."  
His face fixed in a snarl, Riggs keeps on hitting him.  
Even though he knows this could end disastrous, Roger leans forward and catches his fist in mid-swing. "Riggs, stop."  
Thankfully, the former SEAL doesn't attack. He just strains against his grip for a second and then snaps out of it, the manic look fading from his eyes. Roger lets go of his fist and they look at each other, breathing heavy.  
The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped has them jumping to their feet. The owner of the bar is fed up with the destruction of his establishment and yells, " _Get out of my fucking bar!_ "  
Everyone instantly obeys, at least those still able to move. After a slight detour Riggs and Murtaugh join the general exodus.

"That was not fun. Not at all." Roger gingerly touches his bloody nose.  
They're sitting outside, leaning against the side of the bar, waiting for their cab to arrive. Still giddy from the fight, Riggs chuckles at his partner's sulky expression and nasal voice.  
"I saw you in there, Mr. Groin-Kick. You were having the time of your life."  
Roger wouldn't go that far, but he did definitely enjoy it – there is a certain atavistic satisfaction in besting another person in a fight. But if he says so, he'll only encourage his already overly combative partner and he doesn't want that.  
With a big knowing grin Riggs watches the thoughts play over his partner's face. Sometimes Roger is incredibly easy to read.  
"Even if I did like it – and I'm not admitting anything here – it doesn't change the fact that my goddamn nose is now broken!"  
Riggs glances at it. "No, it isn't."  
"And you can tell just by looking at it."  
Riggs reaches over and examines his partner's busted-up nose with gentle fingers. "Yeah. And because otherwise you'd pass out when I do that." He taps the bridge of his nose. White hot spots of pain explode in Roger's vision and he yelps. "Son of a bitch!"  
Riggs laughs and pats his shoulder. "You'll be fine. It's going to swell up like crazy though. Here." He hands him the bottle he swiped on the way out.  
Roger uses it to cool his nose, the relief instantaneous. Somewhat mollified, he asks, "How's your hand?" Using a fresh batch of paper napkins and a stolen bar rag, Riggs has fashioned a makeshift bandage for the slice in his palm, but already blood is seeping through.  
Instead of answering, Riggs cracks up again. "You sound real snotty, like one of those upper-class pricks." Affecting an arrogant, nasal tone, he says, "Butler, bring me some gold to sprinkle over my soup."  
"Oh, fuck off, I don't sound like that." Roger glowers at his partner, but there's no real heat in it. He marvels at how he is still able to laugh after everything he's been through. It must take an incredible strength just to keep going, day after day, without surrendering to the darkness.  
 _Just hang in there, buddy._

Still chuckling, Riggs shifts his weight until he is slouched comfortably against his partner, Roger's shoulder as solid a support as the brick wall behind him. He muses that that's the good thing about his partner; he may come across as a self-righteous prick sometimes, but you can count on him to support you when it matters. And he's always willing to lend a helping hand. Pride and lifelong conditioning – _Riggs men don't ask for help –_ might make it hard for him to accept that, but deep down he's grateful.  
And it's not just his partner. There's also Trish, Cahill and even Avery who could and should have fired him many, many times, but for some reason didn't.  
Life has taught him never to take something good for granted, so he clears his throat and quietly says, "Thank you. You know, for always being there. Means a lot to me."  
Roger is touched. He knows how difficult that must have been for Riggs. Earnestly, he replies, "And it means a lot to me that you decided to finally tell me."  
With a small, embarrassed smile, Riggs nods.  
Roger's heart fills with a sudden rush of love for the man beside him. Unable to contain himself, he reaches out to affectionately ruffle his hair.  
"Oy!" Riggs shoves his hand away and looks at him sidelong. "I think that blow shook something loose in that bowling ball you call a head."  
Roger just grins. While Riggs might not be the easiest person to work with, he wouldn't trade his partner for the world.  
Their cab arrives. Roger's ass and legs are numb from sitting on the hard ground, so he has to lean on his partner's shoulder to get to his feet. Then he reaches down a hand to pull the younger man up.  
"Come on, let's see if there is any pizza left." 

A sudden ruckus in the back yard startles Trish awake. A glance at the clock on her bedside table tells her it's three in the morning. _What the hell?_ She listens for a moment, but the noise has died down. She closes her eyes, determined to go back to sleep – she has an important meeting in the morning. Just as she is about to nod off, there it is again: Voices and laughter. And they're definitely coming from the back yard.  
She climbs out of bed and pads barefoot to the window. Peering out, she can see her husband and his partner reclining in the deck chairs, a half-empty pizza carton between them. Martin is gesturing emphatically with a slice of pizza, telling some wild story, while Roger is roaring with laughter. She slides open the window and catches the last words. "... and while Jake distracted the farmer, I sneaked around the back and released his hogs. He tried to catch them, but hogs are smart, and fast when they want to be. You should have seen it, it was hilarious." Her husband is laughing again, at such a volume she figures he must be drunk – because that's when his laugh gets extra loud.  
She leans out and whisper-yells, "Would you pipe down out there? I'm trying to sleep."  
Both twist around in surprise and chorus, "Sorry, Trish."  
As she closes the window, they're already deep in conversation again, but quieter this time. Smiling in fond exasperation, Trish goes back to bed.


End file.
